


And Four To Go...

by SorrowsFlower



Series: All We Have In The End [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bomb, Childhood, Explosion, F/M, Fix It Fic, John Watson freaking out, Mycroft Holmes freaking out, Sentiment, The Final Problem, sherrinford, the holmes family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: In the living room of 221B Baker Street, four people sit across from each other like pieces on each corner of a chessboard. The East Wind blows and the dead return. The demons beneath have broken the surface, bringing secrets to light along with them... and danger comes for them all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElinorX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElinorX/gifts).



> Part 1 of the series, All We Have In The End. (Taken from Mrs. Hudson's quote on 'family')
> 
> Title taken from the 1958 Nero Wolfe stories “And Four to Go”.

Four people sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street, like pieces on each corner of a chessboard. 

Sherlock Holmes was in his usual chair, fingers steepled under his chin as they were whenever he was deep in thought. John Watson sat across from him, in his old chair, but there was in his stance, a certain discomfit – as if the seat he was filling had somehow outgrown him, or perhaps he had outgrown it – and yet, still, he remained there.

In the client’s chair, the unwilling participant, Mycroft Holmes found himself in a position he rarely, and in fact, had never occupied – that of victim and supplicant. Supplication was for lesser mortals, not gods in marble halls such as him – and yet, here he was, his hands empty save for his weapon that he clung to needlessly like a child clutching a security object. 

His vulnerability, his inferiority thrown in his face like a wet rag.

It seemed fitting that the person who sat across from him be another who had conquered him and had nearly destroyed him and his brother. Yet another example of his inadequacy. 

The Woman sat in a chair in front of the fireplace between the detective and the doctor.

Of course. Trust Irene Adler to choose the position in which she could be at the head of the room, across from Mycroft so that she could see his shame and vulnerability straight in the face. 

As undeniably grave as their situation was, he knew she had to be enjoying her triumph over him immensely. Five years, and yet here she was across from him, still the dark queen in black silk and Louboutins, instead of the hostage in the hijab that he had seen in the video of her “execution”.

Irene Adler, alive. And his own brother, a traitor – not just to the country for knowingly aiding and abetting a known terrorist, but to Mycroft himself.

But then again, neither he nor his brother were the honest type, were they?

He really should have known.

 _“Why is_ she _here?” Mycroft turned to his brother, his tone lofty, an annoyed drawl that only thinly concealed his shock and fury. He twirled his umbrella in his hand even as he itched to draw the gun from it, trying to decide which of them he wanted to shoot more — The Woman or his fool of a brother._

_“She is here at my request,” Sherlock murmured, looking at neither of them. It didn’t fool Mycroft. The slight tension in his facial muscles, the way he responded, minutely and seemingly unconsiously, to the Woman’s every shift in posture. Sherlock and his damned sentiment… “And she’s here as a favor to me — well, actually to you, since this was your fault to begin with — so do shut up, Mycroft.”_

_"This is family!” Mycroft had hissed at him in an attempt to exclude not only The Woman, but also John Watson. He had worked too long and too hard all these years to ensure, not only the safety of the country but that of his family, to trumpet their secrets to two outsiders — least of all to_ Irene Adler, _for God’s sakes, who had dealt with secrets and blackmail for a living when she_ was _living. Or legally living._ _  
_

_“THAT’S WHY SHE STAYS!” Sherlock had turned on him with such ferocity that Mycroft actually drew back for fear of a physical attack. “That’s why they_ both _stay!”_

He, Mycroft, had no choice but to acquiesce. 

… And so, the story unfolded itself from his lips.

“Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid,” Mycroft mused as he neared the end of his story – his confession – his tone chilling and sober as a wry, grim smile crossed his face. “But I can give you a map reference to Hell.”

He let the words sink in for the other three people in the room. 

“That’s where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn’t left, not for a single day.” Mycroft continued, addressing both his brother and John Watson. His tone turned wry and dismissive. “Whoever you both met… it can’t have been her.”

Both men were shocked and silent, but surprisingly, it was the Woman who interrupted him.  She had a phone in her lap, similar to the one that had given Mycroft and everyone else so much trouble, except he knew Sherlock had kept that one. This was a newer model, and she kept it close, even as her cold eyes bore into Mycroft’s, as though trying to see the lie in his.

“I met her.”

Sherlock’s head snapped toward her and his voice was low and dangerous when he spoke. “What?”

If she picked up on the change in his tone, she didn’t show it, instead she directed her answer to Mycroft. “Three days ago. At Eaton Square. I passed her on the street. I… dropped something, and she picked it up. I didn’t think anything of it, but as she was handing it to me, she leaned close and said, _‘I’d be careful if I were you. The East Wind is here’._ ”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose as she returned his glare. “Why do you think I came here?”

John’s gaze flicked between the two, but it was Mycroft who cut them off. “How can you be sure it was her? You don’t even know what she looks like, that could have been anybody.”

“It was her.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Yeah, but how could you possibly know that?”

Instead of explaining herself, the Woman turned to Sherlock, her gaze unreadable. They stared at each other for several seconds, as if they could read the other’s thoughts. Mycroft tried to deduce anything he could from whatever internal conversation they were having, but couldn’t and he was just about to interrupt out of frustration when Sherlock seemed to interpret something in the Woman’s gaze, and his face darkened considerably. 

His fingers gripped the arms of his chair so tight, his knuckles whitened.

“Because she wasn’t talking to _you_.”

Both John and Mycroft exchanged a look, brows furrowed in confusion. Mycroft spoke first. “What do you mean? Who else would she—?”

The rest of his sentence fizzled out as they heard the tinkling crash of glass breaking from somewhere in the kitchen. All four of them turned toward the source of the sound, immediately on alert. The crash was immediately followed by a soft, droll voice crooning those dreaded words:

_“I that am lost, oh, who will find me?_

_Deep down below, the old beech tree.”_ _  
_

All at once, the four of them were on their feet. John Watson, ever the soldier, stiffened as though readying himself for an attack. The Woman’s eyes were narrowed at the doorway, and Mycroft could see Sherlock instinctively reach for her hand, the one that held her new phone. 

A chill went down Mycroft’s spine at the sound of that voice, and he reached for his umbrella.

_“Help succor me now, the east winds blow._

_Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go…“_

He was the closest to the door, and he was the first to see the small drone flying slowly  their way. At first, he couldn’t make out its irregular shape, then he realized what was perched on top of the drone and his blood turned into ice water in his veins.

"Keep back!” Mycroft warned the others sharply as the drone came into the sitting room. “Keep as still as you can!”

The doctor was the first to speak. “What is it?”

Sherlock spoke first. “It’s a drone.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” It was John Watson who replied even as he began to retreat slowly, trying to get as far away from the drone as possible within the confines of the sitting room. “What’s it carrying?”

“What’s that silver thing on top of it, Mycroft?”

“It’s a DX-707. Colloquially, it is known as the 'Patience Grenade’.” Mycroft explained inanely as the drone began to lower itself. At the word 'grenade’, he saw Sherlock inch forward subtly so that the Woman was behind him.

Vaguely, he had a sense of how absurd this whole situation was: his brother, his brother’s lover, his brother’s best friend and himself playing statues in a room with a bomb sent by his sister in it. And yet, here he was speaking in a calm voice that was not his own. “I’ve authorized the purchase of quite a number of these." 

The Woman gave a short laugh from her side of the room. "I know. So did I.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why couldn’t Sherlock have chosen a normal woman to develop sentiment for? One who wasn’t a terrorist and a dominatrix? Between the Woman, their sister and their mother, they had caused enough trouble for Sherlock Holmes to last Mycroft a lifetime.

The drone landed on the floor, and a small red light, no bigger than a dot, came on.

“The blinking red light on top of it, that wasn’t in the prototype.” The Woman was still speaking. She had moved to a spot closer to the window — closer to Sherlock, who still held her hand — but she had stopped moving as soon the drone landed on the floor and the motion sensors activated. 

“Ah… this isn’t the original prototype,” Mycroft explained, a note of dread and anxiety creeping into his voice even as he tried not to move. “This is a modified version of the grenade with the motion sensors adjusted to be much more sensitive and more powerful than the prototype. If any of us move, the grenade will detonate.”

The Woman fixed him with a level look. “How much more sensitive?”

“The slightest movement could kill us all.”

Sherlock glared at him. “How powerful?”

“It will certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it.” Mycroft heard Sherlock release a long, slow breath, and the Woman’s mouth tightened. John Watson muttered a curse under his breath.

“Assuming walls of reasonable strength, your neighbors should be safe. But as it’s landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the cafe below is open.”

It was the Woman who replied, with a slight smile on her face, slanting a look at Sherlock. “Sunday morning. It’s closed.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. If this bomb didn’t kill them all, he would strangle his brother with his bare hands. Or perhaps he’d better save that for the head of his surveillance team. God only knew how many times Irene Adler had managed to get past them into Baker Street without them realizing it. Incompetent goldfish…

John Watson’s voice interrupted his murderous thoughts. “What about Mrs. Hudson?”

Ah, yes. Sherlock’s beloved landlady. He could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner running underneath them.

“Going by her routine,” Sherlock muttered. “I estimate she has another eight minutes left.”

“She keeps the vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat.” John mused.

“So?”

“So… Safer there when she’s putting it away.” John Watson replied, angling a look at him. “But we have to move eventually, and we should do it when she’s safest.”

True. Besides after the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson usually moved up to the second floor to clean, putting her much closer to the blast radius. The same thought apparently occurred to Sherlock. “When the vacuum stops, we give her eight seconds to get to the back of the flat. She’s fast when she’s cleaning… Then we move. What’s the trigger response time?”

“The prototype had seven seconds.” The Woman replied, her clever, glacial eyes scanning the room before flicking to Mycroft’s. “Unless you enhanced your lovely 'modified’ version to kill us all faster?”

Mycroft glared at her. How was he to know Eurus would use this against him? Then he backtracked immediately on that train of thought : if he didn’t anticipate this, who would have? “We have a maximum of three seconds to vacate the blast radius.”

He saw his brother’s eyes flick from the grenade to the Woman, then to the window, and he could almost see Sherlock making calculations – the distance between her and the grenade, the distance between the Woman and the window – but before either Holmes could speak, the Woman did.

“Don’t even _think_ about it.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “It was just a thought.”

The Woman glared at him icily. “Remember the last time you tried to 'save’ me? How did that work out for you again?”

Sherlock’s smile turned into a full grin. “Well, you did break me out.”

Mycroft frowned at them both, but thankfully, it was John who interrupted. “Uh, hello? Hate to interrupt your reminiscing, but we do have a grenade in here that will explode and kill us all if we don’t come up with a plan soon.”

“Right.” Sherlock looked back at the grenade, then scanned the room. “The Woman and I will take this window. John, you take the window closest to you. Mycroft, you take the stairs. Help get Mrs. Hudson out too.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Me?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the stairs. “You’re closer.”

“But you’re faster.”

“Speed differential won’t be as critical as the distance.” Sherlock muttered, looking up at him.

Mycroft exhaled slowly and steeled himself. “Yes, agreed.”

The Woman interrupted them, but this time when she spoke, they heard an urgency in her tone that was unfamiliar and unexpected. “Is a phone call possible?”

All three men looked at her, and Mycroft could see that her eyes were cold still, but a look of fear had infused itself into her glacial gaze. Actual _fear_ … and this was the Woman who had brought the nation to its knees without batting an eyelash. Mycroft only recognized the emotion because he had seen it there five years ago when Sherlock had deduced her sentiment for him.

“What–?”

“Is a phone call possible?” She repeated, carefully enunciating each word with impatience and her familiar brand of imperiousness.

Mycroft frowned incredulously at her. “You must be joking! You know what this bomb can do! What could possibly be so important that you—!”

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock cut him off. 

He was staring at the Woman, his pale eyes unreadable, and Mycroft had to wonder, yet again, what went on between the two of them. It was as if they could truly read each other’s minds. Not even Mycroft could deduce Sherlock’s thinking process most of the time. He may be the smart one, but Sherlock was remarkable in a way that not even Mycroft, his brother and self-appointed keeper for most of his life, could understand.

And yet here was this Woman — this deceptive storm who had swept into their lives and uprooted everything in her path with ease — who seemed not only able to understand his brother, but also shared the same thoughts, the same brilliance.

Sherlock was slowly, inch by inch, adjusting his grip on her hand, the one that held her phone, and Mycroft cried out in alarm. “What are you doing?! Have you gone mad??”

His brother ignored him and carefully, with minute movements, adjusted his hands with the Woman’s so that he held the phone. Since he had been holding her hand anyway, there was very little movement involved, but still Mycroft watched with trepidation. The other three in the room waited with bated breath as the phone switched hands, but by some miracle, the grenade remained intact and so did they. 

The Woman’s grip on the phone loosened, and Sherlock slid his fingers over the screen to dial a number Mycroft didn’t recognize.

The sound of the phone ringing as it waited for a response from the other line seemed almost violently loud in the room. It seemed interminable, the ringing of the phone, but when the other line picked up, Mycroft released a long, shocked breath.

“Hello?”

A child’s voice — male, possibly no older than three, with an undeniably British accent, though with just the slightest hint of Manhattan in its pronunciation of the 'e’, and the smallest lisp. 

Dear God… he would know that lisp anywhere. He had grown up hearing it, until the day Redbeard disappeared and his baby brother had changed completely.

“Oh, Sherlock… you didn’t…”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but the Woman did, and there was in her cool voice, a slight hitch, a tremor that betrayed her to the other people in the room, but not to the voice on the other line. “Hello, darling.”

“Mummy!” The happiness in the child’s tone was clear and genuine. Mycroft’s chest squeezed painfully as he listened to the child. From his peripheral vision, he saw John Watson’s eyes widen and flick back and forth between the Woman and Sherlock. 

“Mummy, when are you coming home?”

The Woman’s cool composure seemed to crack a little and she closed her eyes. “Not tonight, darling.”

The disappointment was apparent in the child’s voice when he spoke. “Oh. Is Daddy with you?”

Sherlock’s grip on the phone tightened. “Yes.”

John Watson’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he stared at Sherlock, but before he could do or say anything more, Mycroft hissed at him, “For God’s sake, Dr. Watson, _don’t move!”_

The doctor settled for glaring at Sherlock murderously and muttering a curse under his breath, but Mycroft had the distinct impression that he would be trying to punch Sherlock again if the bomb didn’t have motion sensors. Mycroft couldn’t blame him, as it was, he was already planning his brother’s murder if they got out of this alive. “Jesus, _Sherlock_ …! A kid… a fucking _kid!”_

“Nero…” Sherlock began, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone. So that was the boy’s name… “Nero. Your mother and I are working on a case.”

“A case?!” The child’s excited voice thrilled through the phone. Sherlock breathing hitched a little, and his eyes flicked to the Woman’s. “Can I help? I wanna help! Mummy said I could help in the next one!”

“Of course you can, darling.” The tremor in the Woman’s voice was more difficult to conceal now, but Mycroft could see her gathering her composure to avoid alarming the boy. 

It made Mycroft wonder about the boy’s intellectual capabilities. With parents like his, there was no doubt he would be extraordinary… He wished he could meet him. Nero. If not to assess his brilliance, then just to see his nephew. Dear God in Heaven, his _nephew…_

“Do you remember what we taught you before?” Sherlock, too, kept his tone light, but Mycroft could hear the urgency beginning to creep into it. “What I told you the best detectives do?”

“The best detectives 'Look for clues’! I’ll look for clues and deduce them!” Nero’s tremendous excitement and his lisp made the exclamation almost incomprehensible, and Sherlock huffed a short laugh.

“That’s right. I’ll even give you a hint. It’s in the fireplace.”

“The fireplace!” For a moment, the sounds from the other line disintegrated into shuffling and bumping as the child headed to the fireplace in his location. 

The child must have set the phone down, because the audio cleared and Mycroft could hear a woman speaking Serbian in the background with the smallest hint of an English accent. He recognized the region the dialect was from and he noted the voice as that of the Woman’s former assistant, Katherine “Kate” Malone. So they were in Montenegro, then, and this Kate was his nephew’s only guardian present.

“I’ve got it!” Nero’s voice crowed into the phone. “Mummy, Daddy! I’ve got it! I know what to do!”

“Well done!” The Woman laughed into the phone, but Mycroft was surprised to see the sheen of tears on her cheeks. “We have to go now, my darling. Stay with Kate, and be good. We’ll see you when you find all the clues.”

“Bye, Mummy. Bye, Daddy.” Nero’s voice began to grow faint as the child no doubt pored over whatever “clues” he had found. “Love you!”

The Woman’s eyes closed and her composure cracked enough so that Mycroft saw her face tighten with pain. She seemed unable to speak. Sherlock, however, spoke for her.

“I love you, too.” His eyes were grave, but Mycroft could tell, having known his brother all his life, that Sherlock meant these words. No lie. No deception. “We both do.”

Instead of clicking off, they heard the sound of pounding over the other line, followed by the sounds of yelling. Mycroft’s Serbian had been developed well enough with his stint at Baron Maupertuis’ compound that he could decipher what the gruff male voices were demanding. They wanted the boy.

“Nero?”

There was no hiding the alarm in the Woman’s voice now. Her entire body seemed to stiffen as she called for her son. The voices grew louder and more aggressive, and the pounding of many footsteps on wood followed it. Dear God, they must have entered the house… 

“Nero?? Darling, answer me! What’s going on?”

There was a loud thud and a woman’s scream. The Woman’s eyes widened and he knew it was only the threat of the motion sensors that stopped her from reaching out for the phone again. “Kate! Oh, God… Nero, baby, answer me please…!”

But the child’s voice could not be heard over the sounds of people storming the house. Mycroft strained to hear the small, high childish voice with its lisp amid the gruff yelling and the commotion, but he couldn’t hear it.

Sherlock had gone as still as stone, but his eyes were wild with fear. “Nero??”

For a moment, the commotion stopped. As though Sherlock’s voice over the phone had made them freeze.

Then it came.

The sound of a bomb exploding, its blast echoing from the other line in Montenegro through the small phone held in Sherlock Holmes’s hands in 221B Baker Street.

And the line went dead.

Vaguely, Mycroft heard the Woman gasp and cry out, he heard John Watson yelling, but it was Sherlock’s reaction that triggered the chain of events that Mycroft would never forget in his life.

Sherlock’s death grip on the phone loosened as though someone had cut off all his muscles completely. The phone slid out of his hand and dropped to the floor.

Immediately, the beeping from the grenade started and Mycroft moved out of sheer instinct. He launched himself out of the room and dove for the stairs just as the bomb exploded. The force of the explosion propelled him much further than he had expected, and Mycroft was thrown against the wall opposite the stairs.

God, it hurt…!

He had known it would, but nothing in his life prepared him for the pain as his body collided with the wall and dropped onto the bottom of the stairs. It felt as if every bone in his body was broken, his ears were ringing and he felt the hot sting of burns on his arms and legs where the heat from the fire had singed through his suit and into his skin. He was bleeding in at least half a dozen places where the shrapnel and debris had cut him, copiously from at least two of them,

He wanted nothing more than to lie there and recover, but there was Mrs. Hudson to think of.

Mrs. Hudson who was screeching in shock and terror in the supply closet where she had no doubt hid herself as an instinctive reaction. Thank God the woman still had the presence of mind for that.

“What’s going on?? What was that? I was just cleaning, and — Where are the boys??”

He couldn’t think about what had happened to the others upstairs, he had to get them both out first. The others were far more used to these things than he, with his disdain for leg work, was, and he had to believe they were alright.

Mycroft struggled to his feet and lurched toward her as smoke began to fill the kitchen and the flames began to spread down the stairs. Thankfully, there were no shrapnel or debris here. He grabbed Mrs. Hudson by the back of her dress and pulled her out  the back door to the relative safety of the street.

He dropped to the concrete as soon as he knew they were both safe. Mrs. Hudson was still dithering on the sidewalk, looking up at her house, whimpering over and over again. The proprietor of the nearby bakery who had rushed out at the sound of the explosion took pity on her and led her in for tea while he called the fire department.

The doctor was the first to find him, trying to get his wits back in line and his cuts to stop bleeding. John leaned over him, asking “Are you alright?”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, his voice hoarse and choked by smoke and fear. “And Irene Adler?”

“Alive,” The doctor reassured him, pointing over to the other end of the street. “Here they come.”

Mycroft barely heard him. It was disconcerting, to say the least, being on the receiving end of such an explosion, when these were things he ordered on a daily basis behind the safety and security of his desk  "Dear God… I can’t believe I almost killed us all, almost orphaned my nephew, with that bomb…“

John Watson dropped down beside him on the sidewalk. "I can’t believe you _have_ a nephew…”

Mycroft exhaled unsteadily.

“Wait, your nephew…!” John straightened up with a jolt, as though electrocuted, and Mycroft felt a sense of immense dread swooping his stomach, and his blood turned to ice. 

 _Nero!_ God in Heaven, the child could not be dead. He could not… And yet who could survive that blast they heard over the phone? Mycroft was barely alive as it was, and he had a good few decades on the boy.

“Oh, God. Nero…”

“Relax,” Sherlock’s voice floated over them as he and the Woman approached. “He’s fine.”

Mycroft sputtered, looking incredulously at them both. “But — But that phone call…! And Montenegro??”

“Recorded.” The Woman answered, with a serene smile on her face. She brushed debris off her dress and unpinned her hair. “Three days ago, when I met your lovely sister. Or rather, when she met Nero. I thought it was strange when she mentioned the East Wind, because I knew I’d heard it before.”

She turned to Sherlock. “Then I remembered you sang that song to Nero when he was born, and then again when we were in Madrid. It just took me a while to understand its significance. And then Eurus decided to introduce herself.”

John gaped at her. “And you just… knew that she was Sherlock’s sister? How, telepathically?”

“No, Dr. Watson.” The Woman spared him a condescending glare. “I didn’t know who she was. But I’m a practical woman, I knew that if someone could figure out who I was and where I’d lived in my past life, despite my extensive precautions, eventually, they would find my connection to Sherlock. She seemed to know who Nero was, and when it comes to my son, I don’t take chances." 

Her eyes were steely and Mycroft had to admit, begrudgingly and privately, he knew now what Sherlock had seen in her. There was a reason why she was The Woman. 

"We always had a plan, if something like this were to happen, Nero knows what to do, a code Sherlock taught him. I made the recording, just in case, and sent Kate and Nero to one of my safehouses. I left the bomb and the recording in the cabin in Montenegro for Eurus’s people to find and set perimeter alarms. I figured whoever wanted my son would eventually make the connection to Montenegro and try to extract him. I just had to wait for the right moment to make the phone call, and that was when your sister decided to fly that frankly ridiculous contraption with its hidden camera into the room.”

Mycroft snapped his astounded gaze from the Woman to Sherlock. “And you knew about this the entire time?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. “Of course, I —”

“Of course nothing,” She rolled her eyes. “He had no idea. He only figured it out halfway into the phone call.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “I would have known if you had answered any of my texts.”

The Woman shrugged, taking off her stilettos, which had been damaged by the explosion. “I couldn’t take the chance. Eurus clearly knows intimate details about your life, she clearly knows who Nero is and where he was born. I refuse to risk my son’s life for your bruised ego.”

Sherlock continued to glare at her, but said nothing. Mycroft had to admit, it was slightly gratifying to see his brother at a loss for a witty retort.

John Watson had been gaping at the two, but he seemed to find his voice. “So… what now?”

“Now,” Sherlock grinned, dusting off his suit. “It’s time to plan a family reunion.”

**Author's Note:**

> God, this was a pain in the neck to write, but that scene had to be fixed. I don’t know if I did, but since ElinorX asked me when I told her my headcanon for this scene, I couldn’t refuse her. Thanks for your invaluable help in this!
> 
> This is also on tumblr, I mostly put my stuff up on there first (and then forget to put it up here, lol)


End file.
